Chapter One
Bighorn Basin, Wyoming
Maeve Bennet hated spring with every fiber of her being.
She hated how barren the landscape looked, the grass still weak and wilted from its imprisonment under the snow.
She hated how indecisive the sun was, poking in and out from the clouds as slush partially melted, then re-froze, over and over again.
She hated stepping in said slushy piles, hated the persistent nip of cold in the air that forced her to shed and then re-apply her heavier shawl.
Most of all, Maeve hated when she crossed paths with the patches of buttercups growing around the edges of the barn.
She should have been used to the sight. It was the first thing she saw when she could finally manage to get the cabin door open, the only sign of greenery when she walked the length of her property to check for damages.
They poked through the thinnest layer of snow as she chopped fresh wood, and greeted her as she dug out feed for the cattle, what with the grass still too shy to show its face.
Now, as May came to a steady close, the buttercups mingled with dozens of other wildflowers, painting the pasture in a myriad of color.
It shouldn’t have been such an unusual sight to her, certainly not enough to cause her to stop and stare.
But Maeve did. Every time.
And she continued to do so, frozen at her barn’s entrance as she glared at a small patch growing alongside the wall.
The waxy curl of leaves, the shine of its bright-yellow petals; it all left such a nauseating taste in the back of Maeve’s throat.
No matter how hard she glared at the flower, though, it remained upright, completely unfazed by the venom in her eyes.
“I hate. Spring.”
A chorus of mooing finally pulled Maeve out of her storm cloud, rumbling from within the walls of the barn.
She let out a short breath, flicking her thick, amber braid over her shoulder before pulling the huge doors open.
They squealed in protest, and the caterwauling of the cattle grew ever more clamorous.
“I hear yah, I hear yah!” Maeve quickly darted inside, shoving the barn doors shut and half-jogging across the dirt pathway lined with padlocked stalls. Two dozen Hereford cows shifted about the limited space, and two dozen eyes watched eagerly as their master reached the back of the barn at last.
She undid a number of locks along the Dutch door, giving it a hardy shove to unstick the once-frozen hinges.
The top half swung open, opening up the pasture to the barn’s inhabitants.
Miles of muddied field stretched out toward a line of pines, which were interwoven with barbed wire fencing so as to deter whatever stalked amidst the wild brush.
Brief snatches of sunlight slipped into the barn, catching against the metal of the stalls and sending the cattle into another mooing frenzy.
“Would y’all be patient, please?”
Next came the lower half of the Dutch door, and Maeve gave it another good shove before it finally gave way. With both doors swung out, she moved behind the stall doors and yanked them open, dancing away from the excitable surge of cattle stampeding out into the pasture.
“Y’all’re animals, you know that?” Maeve called out.
The herd paid her no mind, reveling in their newfound freedom.
Sunlight shimmered against their ruddy coats, with some having already managed to muddy their porcelain-white faces.
Maeve sat on the gate for a moment, trying her best to live vicariously through the herd.
Maybe her own love for spring had withered and dried up, but the cattle seemed to live for it.
She watched as the heifers laid claim to the greenest patches of grass, while the newly minted mothers took to the side of the barn.
They propped themselves against the barn wall, taking turns sunbathing and keeping a watchful eye on the autumn-born calves, who were experiencing fresh grass for the first time.
And then, of course, came the bulls.
There weren’t many in the herd, as Pa had ensured he could always count the total on one hand.
Three remained after last year’s sales, and they took to the pasture like roosters strutting about the henhouse.
Horned heads held high, they stalked around the heifers for a good long while, snorting loudly in an attempt to catch their gaze.
“Good luck wit’ that, boys,” Maeve chuckled under her breath.
Sure enough, the heifers seemed far more interested in keeping their grass protected.
Some went as far as to chase after the bulls, only to immediately turn and head back to their grass once they deemed the pests were far enough away.
After a few encounters, the bulls got the message, albeit begrudgingly so.
“There yah go, boys. Go wander off elsewhere–!” Maeve let out a dramatic sigh as the troublesome trio made for the nearest row of fence posts. “Oh, fer Pete’s sake... Boys! No!”
They’d hardly begun to scrape their horns against the wooden pillar when Maeve let a sharp whistle slip from between her lips and fingers.
She hopped off the fence as the bulls staggered back, waving her hands furiously in the air.
“Don’t you three start making trouble fer me already! Y’all just got out here!”
The troublesome trio let out an irritable bellow, one going as far as to start digging his hoof into the wet earth.
He quickly changed his mind as the only dairy cow in the herd came thundering across the pasture.
Her tail swished furiously, her ruby-roan body trembling as she let out a chastising bellow.
The bulls appeared visibly rattled, intimidated enough to turn tail as the dairy cow drew too close for comfort. She then slowed to a trot as the boys made for the tree line, letting out a loud snort as she struck the ground with her hoof.
Maeve jogged up alongside the dairy cow, chuckling as she swung an arm around the animal’s neck. “Yeah, Mossy. Yout got ’em good, girl.”
Mossy chuffed, pleased at the praise. Her velvety ears flickered excitedly, and she rubbed her piebald snout against Maeve’s side.
“Moss–!” Panicked laughter escaped Maeve as the dairy cow began to lean her full weight against her body. “Y’ain’t no spring chicken no more.”
Mossy’s tail snapped and she let out a plaintive moo.
“Alright, hold on.” Maeve found a drier patch of grass to sit on, dropping down as Bossy Mossy followed suit.
The older cow eased herself onto her side and folded her legs in, leaving very little space between herself and Maeve.
Rolling her eyes, Maeve gave the dairy cow a hearty pat, then transitioned to pets and strokes across her speckled frame.
Like moss on the side of a pine tree; that had been Maeve’s logic when naming the newly-born calf nearly nine years ago. Her father’s laughter rang in her ears, and she recalled how embarrassed she’d been. “Teenagers get mad over any li'l thing,” Maeve mused.
‘You name them there dairy cows just like yer Ma did, buttercup.’
Maeve blinked, the words of her father unexpectedly popping into her memory.
She stretched out across the grass, Mossy quick to set her head gently on Maeve’s stomach.
She began to absentmindedly stroke the dairy cow’s snout, staring up at the cloud-covered sky until her eyes stopped stinging so terribly.
“Maybe spring’s not so bad,” Maeve murmured quietly to herself.
As if to prove her wrong, a loud crack shattered across the sky. Every head in the pasture shot upright, Maeve practically shoving Mossy off her body to jump to her feet. Something other than the cold breeze froze her blood solid, and she stood stiffly in place. Waiting.
Another shot came moments later, followed by the telltale scent of sulfur.
The sound sent the herd scattering, and Maeve barely had enough sense to force herself into a sprint.
She practically slid past the barn door, her hand catching the side of the wall as her fingers grasped for something unseen.
Then, she found it: the dangling end of a rope, coming out of the depths of a large, well-polished brass bell.
Maeve yanked the rope furiously, sending a clattering clang all throughout the property.
She then scrambled for the gate, barely managing to swing herself over the side as a stampede of cattle raced past her, shoving desperately to get back into the stalls.
The bulls stuck to the end of the herd, snorting and digging at the ground while the heifers and cows raced inside.
“Come on, boys!”
Another sharp whistle from Maeve drew the troublesome trio in, seemingly escorting the last of the herd to safety. Once the final calf passed by, Maeve hopped off and gave both halves of the Dutch door a swift shove with her foot, sending them swinging closed with her inside.
It had barely finished closing before she bolted every single one of its locks. Then Maeve slid into one of the older horse stalls, snagging an old shotgun propped up in the corner.
Bandits. It had to be; warm weather pulled all manner of predators out from the dark, and humans were no different.
‘Listen.’
Maeve pressed the gun against her chest. So much so that her ribs began to ache.
‘They don’t care if you’re a woman.’
Her hand trembled, making the gun’s barrel shake. She tightened her grip.
“They won’t give you another chance.’
The barn grew deathly quiet. Even the herd was soundless, as if familiar with the consequences. All that broke the silence was the occasional crack of gunfire outside, and Maeve could only clench her teeth in reply.
She. Hated. Spring.
***
An irregular knock echoed against the barn door. It almost sounded like the standard three raps, just with a major delay between the first and second knock. It sounded…wrong, like someone playing a sour note on the fiddle.
But to Maeve, that strange knock was like music to her ears.